New York City: 1920
by Anthea Brammer
Summary: My favorite Newsies meet my favorite Barricade Boy (and girl) in a prohibition-era New York City, greatly influenced by The Great Gatsby and Chicago. What could go wrong?


Jack Jack stood at the corner of Broadway. The wind that whistled between nearby buildings ruffled the papers in his hands and cut through his ragged clothes, promising snow later on. Beside him, little Crutchie was shivering. They hadn't sold nearly enough papers, and it was already past dinner time, at least what ought to be dinner time. Proper food was expensive, and therefore, scarce. The winter sun had set long ago, the street now lit intermittently with the glow of nightclubs and speakeasies. It would be another night of going without, he thought grimly. A man and woman stepped out of the shadows, having come from the back door of a theatre across the street, and he started up his shout again. "Papers! Papers! The New York World! Cheap! Papers!" Crutchie joined in, spying their target. The woman pulled at the man's arm, tilting her head in Jack's direction. Santa Fe, Santa Fe he chanted his luck word, his mantra, in his mind as he prayed to Whatever Was Out There that the couple would buy. Fortune was smiling; they were walking towards him and Crutchie, passing under a street lamp. He noticed with a shock that they were both much younger than he had first guessed, probably around his own age. The woman, more of a girl, really, wore a fur coat, red gloves, and a beaded headband. Her auburn hair was curled and bobbed in the height of flapper style, her eyes lined in black make-up, and her lips were painted to match her gloves. She must be a showgirl, an actress or something, he thought with awe. The young man looked like "a somebody," too. His suit was finely tailored, his black loafers impeccably shined. Instead of wearing his bowler, he held it in a gloved hand, displaying carefully styled ash-blond hair. Jack felt the stirrings of envy deep in his gut. "How many papers have you got, love?" The girl's voice was smoky, with foreign tones that were hard to place. "Sev'ny-two, ma'am." Crutchie trilled, his sweet child's voice harshened by his New York accent. "Seventy-two? I'll take the lot." She reached for a spangled purse that hung at her side. "Eponine!" Her male companion- Husband? That seemed unlikely. Friend? Lover?- broke in. "What are you going to do with seventy-two papers?" His voice was foreign too, British, was Jack's best guess. "Why, I'm going to buy them!" She brushed off the boy's protests, passing a five dollar bill to Jack. Her gloves were satin, soft when they brushed his hand. "Do you want the change?" He reached in his pocket, hoping he had enough. "No, you keep it." She winked. "You're going to go bankrupt, you know." The other boy sighed resignedly, crossing his arms and looking at Jack with thinly veiled disgust. "He's just in a mood because I upstaged his girl in tonight's show." She stage-whispered conspiratorially, like she were letting Jack in on a big secret. His heart was doing something strange, beating very fast. "Then you ain't his girl?" He blurted out before he could stop himself. "Oh, darling, I'm nobody's girl." She smirked. "We've got to go." The boy checked a shiny pocket watch. "Oh, don't have a kitten, Enjolras." She snapped exasperatedly. "Thanks for the papes… What's your name?" "Jack. Jack Kelly." Jack blushed as he handed her the stack of papers. "An' I'm Crutchie!" Crutchie piped up. "Right, this is Crutchie." "Well, it's been a pleasure, Jack Kelly and Crutchie. Stay warm, dears. This weather is awful." She let her companion, Enjolras, Jack remembered, lead her away. … Moxie "Eponine, you can't help every ruffian you pass on the street." Enjolras scolded her. "It's Moxie now, really you sound quite unprofessional. And, I will help whoever I please! I would have died back home if people hadn't helped me, and now here I am, making it big! What's wrong if I want to give back, help the Karma? And, the little one, Crutchie, he reminded me of my brother." She explained, trying to make him understand. "You don't believe in Karma." He reminded her, instinctively grabbing her arm so that she didn't slip on a patch of ice. Her eyes met his and he blushed, letting go. She reminded herself that he was Meyer's son, that he had a girl already, and that she didn't matter to him, smothering the butterflies that danced in her stomach uninvited. "You're right. I believe in good times, in the jazz age, in neon lights and speakeasies. I believe in New York!" She shouted, raising an imaginary glass. "Don't you take anything seriously?" "I try not to." She laughed, and he rolled his eyes in a put-upon way. They didn't say anything else all the way back to St. Reggis, and he left her in the lobby with a brisk nod. It was so like him, and she remembered another time he had left her, quite alone, with a nod. "Well, how's that for chivalry?" She asked no one in particular, climbing the stairs to her suite slowly. She thought back to the handsome paper boy. What had his name been? Oh, Jack. Jack Kelly. She smiled. … Jack "I betcha he's a bootlegger." Crutchie confessed as soon as the couple was out of sight. "He ain't. He's too young. 'Sides, Father Dip's got the whole operation tight in his hand." "I betcha she's rich." "She cern'ly was actin' it. Who buys an entire set of papes?" "You think she's a phil-philanthropist?" Crutchie stumbled over the unfamiliar word. "Nah. She's a chorus girl, Crutchie. A flapper. Yeah, she helped us out but that don't make her a philanthrope. How 'bout we's head back to the Refuge. Give that leg o' yours some rest, eh?" Crutchie nodded his consent, and they set off towards the government housing they shared with other newsboys. They bought roasted nuts from a weary vendor on their way, a rare treat. When they got back to the Refuge, Crutchie told his friends about the famous flapper girl they had met who had bought their papers, explaining that he knew she was "somebody real famous" because of her fur coat and red gloves. " 'S it true? You meetin' the next Medda Larkin?" Specs, one of the older newsies who got his nickname from the glasses he wore, asked Jack when they were out of Crutchie's earshot. "Nah. She was somethin' though." "Yeah? What's her name? You did catch her name, didntcha?" "Her… whoever he was… called her Eponine." "That's a French name." Specs informed him, nodding knowingly. "Whatever you say, Specs." Jack laughed, cuffing the other boy's shoulder as he climbed into his cot bed. … Jack In the morning, he went back to the same corner, hoping for a glimpse of her, hoping to talk to her again, with no such luck. It was the same way the next day, and the day after that. Slowly winter turned to spring, and he still did not see her, or even the boy who had been with her. He wondered about them, and couldn't help but wonder if she ever thought of him. … Jack Jack walked along the crowded sidewalk, hands in his pockets. It had been a successful morning of headline hawking, and so he had a few hours of liberty. He was headed to Central Park, wanting to escape from the choking smoke and stinking garbage of the city streets. The sun shone through the leafy green canopy, and he imagined he was in a rain forest, somewhere in South America. In the park, he could hear strains of jazz music, and voices singing along. It was a pleasant sound, and he walked towards it instinctively. Several older men with saxophones and trumpets sat on a bench, playing. A group of teen-aged girls sang along and danced the Charleston, drawing stares and whistles from passing school boys. Jack watched them for a moment, when a feeling of recognition began to dawn on him. A girl, obviously the leader of the group, singing the loudest and dressed the nicest, was the showgirl who had bought the seventy-two papers; Eponine, with the protective friend. He stared at her, willing her to notice him. She didn't notice him, but several of her friends did. "Mox, you've got yourself an admirer, a handsome admirer!" One giggled, interrupting her dance, pointing at Jack. He blushed. Eponine looked up at him, looked confused for a moment, and then smiled brightly. "Why, I never! If it isn't Jack Kelly! The Jack Kelly!" She left her tittering friends, skipping towards him. "You remember me?" He was surprised. "But, of course, darling! How could I forget? And little Crutchie! How is he, by the way? You saved me from unspeakable horrors in the city!" "Crutchie's fine, the kid's bright. If he weren't stuck with papes, he'd be goin' places. And, that ain't how I remember meeting you. We sold you seventy-two papes. " "Yes, but it's so much more romantic my way of telling." "Romantic?" "Yes, dear! Everything needs a little romance. Now, laugh like I've said something ever so clever." He laughed, and if it sounded forced she didn't seem to mind. "Perfect." She turned back to her friends, "Dears, why don't you all go along without me? I've just got to have a moment alone with darling Jack here. I'll meet you at the theatre directly." The gaggle took her advice, peeping back over their shoulders until they were out of sight. "What was that all about?" Girls were so confusing. "Oh, they're idiots the lot of them. I simply could not tolerate their company any longer!" "Oh." He was taken aback, she had seemed so happy, dancing as though they had all been as close as sisters. "Why'd that one call you Mox?" "Stage name, dearie. Moxie, because I've got lots of it. My real name is simply too French to succeed, you know. It's fine for the director and his son to be French, but God forbid a chorus girl put on airs." "It's Eponine, right?" "Hardly anyone calls me that anymore! How'd you know?" "The guy you were with, whose girl you'd said you upstaged, that's what he called you." "What a memory you've got!" The musicians struck up another tune, a slow but exciting little number. Eponine, Moxie, whoever she was, cocked her head for a moment- listening. "This is a good one! Dance with me, won't you?" "I can't dance." He protested, but she grabbed his hands, pulling him close to her. "You can if I'm leading." She moved one of his hands to her waist and rested one of hers on his shoulder. "Ready?" She smiled, and they were off, spinning and gliding, losing themselves in the music. He felt awkward at first, but found a rhythm and forgot himself. Time felt changed as they danced, each moment flying by, yet lasting an eternity. Their eyes never left each other's, lost in a world of their own, they were oblivious to the crowd that was forming. Men and women were stopping to stare, gathering around and applauding the couple. The song was ending, their dancing slowed, until they were left standing in front of each other, holding hands and their faces almost touching, both breathing hard. "Kiss 'er!" Someone in the crowd shouted, and the spell was broken. They stepped back with a start, Eponine smiling at the attention, Jack shrinking under it. "I thought you couldn't dance, love?" She teased, laughing and pushing her headband up from where it had drooped down low over her forehead. "Me neither" He laughed. She waved at the crowd; most of the younger onlookers had taken up the chant of "Kiss! Kiss!" And she blew kisses at them, laughing. "No, kiss your boy! Your boy!" A particularly loud child crowed. "Who, him?" She pointed at Jack, who was blushing, obviously embarrassed. "Well, are you going to kiss me?" She put her hands on her hips, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. "Um, I… If…That is.." He fumbled, and she rolled her eyes. She took a step closer to him, cupping his cheek in her hand, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him, right on the mouth. The crowd cheered, and he felt her lips form a smile against his. She pulled away, laughing again. She had a beautiful laugh, like the ringing of bells. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!" She curtsied. Jack stood there, as though he were in shock. "Bow." She whispered, out of the corner of her mouth. "Oh, right." He bowed self-consciously. The crowd began to disperse when it was clear the show was over. "How jake was that? They loved us!" She practically squealed. "That so?" He had never met a girl like her, so vibrant and outgoing and a touch scandalous, not seeming to care about what people thought or what was proper. Certainly not about what was proper. "Darling, couldn't you tell? Oh, I get off on stuff like that. What about you?" "I sell papes." He said dumbly. "Yes, but surely you've got a dream?" She looked up at him with wide doe eyes. "I wanna go to Santa Fe. Get away from New York." "But, everybody wants to come to New York! This is the place." "Not me. "How refreshingly unique." "Well, what about you?" "I'm living my dream, hon." "Mus' be nice." "It is. It's the lovliest feeling in the world. I … Oh, dear." She was looking at something, no someone. Jack looked up; it was her friend, the blond boy with the shiny watch and shoes. He was barreling towards them, looking murderous. "Here you are." His fists were clenched. "Enjolras, dear, you remember Jack Kelly don-" "Don't you 'Enjolras, dear' me, not now! Father is fuming!" "What bee has gotten into Meyer's bonnet now?" She played innocent, looking up at him and widening her eyes. "You were late for rehearsal, and when he asks, one of the dancers says you're in the park with some boy!" He turned to Jack, as if wanting an explanation. "Jack is hardly some boy, and it's entirely my fault anyways. I lost track of time." "Well, it's nice of you to own up to something for once. Come on. Everyone's waiting for you at the theatre." He took her arm, nodding at Jack in a way that said 'I'm doing this because I'm polite, not because I like you.' "Jack, dear, do look me up sometime. Moxie, at the Nearlander Theatre!" She called over her shoulder as Enjolras hustled her away. … Eponine "What are you doing, Eponine, playing around like this? You know you're barely hanging on at the theatre!" She couldn't tell if Enjolras was angry at her because he had been sent to hunt her down, or if he actually cared. They had been close, very close, before the Great War, but time and circumstance had separated them. It had been a shock when they met again on the steamer to America, personalities changed in the years they had been apart; they fell into an uneasy acquaintance of necessity, so she thought. He had hardly said a word to her since the night of the seventy-two papers. "I thought I was doing quite well, actually. The audiences love me." She preened, refusing to allow him to upset her. So what if she was a tad bit late? It wasn't like she was the one who needed extra practice with the routines, anyways. "You're not as endearing as you think you are. You know that, don't you?" His words stung. "Jack Kelly seems to think I'm quite endearing!" She said; it was the first thing that came to her mind. She hadn't necessarily been trying to hurt him, but his blue eyes looked wounded. She felt an ache in her heart, remembering other days when his icy eyes had held pain, but didn't let it show. "Do you even care about him, or is that just a game, too?" He sounded weary, resigned, sad, even. It was as if all the anger had inexplicably evaporated into something else: emptiness. "I do care about him! And, why are you worrying so much about me, anyways? We're not kids anymore, it's not like it was before." "I see." His voice was clipped, the conversation over. She wanted to argue with him, to tell him that she didn't understand why he was being so difficult all of a sudden, but then they had arrived at the theatre and she rushed in to the rehearsal. 


End file.
